


Healing Act: Something to Protect

by Andreinightleaf



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Angst, Deux ex machina Zidane and bucket, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Themes, Mild Nausea, Mild Sexual Content, Nudity, Omorashi, Other, Polyamorous Character, Post-Canon, Softness, Watersports, Wounds, bladder desperation, magic biology, magic headcanons, mild sickness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 10:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17547578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andreinightleaf/pseuds/Andreinightleaf
Summary: Vivi took pride in the fact Black Mage Village had always been peaceful, welcoming—so the day there was a commotion in the settlement’s entrance, he was there right away, intent on resolving the situation or even fight if he had to.[Contents: 90% plot]





	1. ただいま

**Author's Note:**

> Why does the soundtrack in this game have such good song titles that make me want to use them instead of think of actual original titles?
> 
> I've wanted to write Kuja alive post-IX for at least 8-9 years so, I'm definitely happy I finally wrote some.

   Vivi took pride in the fact Black Mage Village had always been peaceful, welcoming—so the day there was a commotion in the settlement’s entrance, he was there right away, intent on resolving the situation or even fight if he had to.

   Black Mages and Genomes gathered a little further from a sight which had him freeze in place; a familiar bundle of blond and jade and cyan, torn garments and bandages, on both him and the one he carried, waterfall of lavender poured to the side as his arms draped over the smaller’s shoulders. Streaks of blood, streaks of dirt, yet the smile on those sky eyes he’d always looked up to made his core skip a beat, as soon as they’d landed on the baby blue coat and glowing yellow eyes he knew best.

   “Told ya I’d be back.”

   Hearing his voice, after so long, and how tired he sounded, seemed to snap the mage back to reality, and he was requesting the others to assist them immediately. They were brought to a vacated residence on the edge which had belonged to a Black Mage and Genome pair, whom decided to move to Conde Petie after trading enough with the dwarf town. Unconscious, Kuja had been placed on one of the beds, wounds cleaned and bandages reapplied, and Vivi was doing the same with Zidane as the latter sat upon a chair, simply observing his brother.

   “He hasn’t woken at all yet, but he has to take potions, so I’m hoping it’ll be soon.” The blond’s words were almost a murmur, and he looked about ready to pass out. “Glad he’s still breathing… he nearly stopped, when we arrived at Conde Petie, and fortunately for us they had healers, so we could keep goin’ longer until arriving here.”

   Big yellows looked up from the leg he was wrapping. “I can’t believe you’re here—both of you.” It had been a while, and he’d made himself come to terms with it, even though he’d still held a little hope, always a little hope—

   A small smile, the trouper closing his eyes. “I’m happy to be here.”

   He went still, then, leant against the back of the chair, tail limp on the floorboard, and once the young one made sure they were properly tended to, he looked at them a last, longing moment before letting them rest for the day.

 

   Traversing the Outer Continent had been complicated. From the very beginning, cutting through the roots of Iifa Tree, climbing up the grandiosity of its bowels while hoisting the other, then the trek to Conde Petie. Avoiding monsters, fighting some. Scavenging for food. Sleeping right on top of his protected, shielding him from the world. Dwarf town, which offered relief in the terms of bed and meals and being able to save Kuja for just a little longer until he woke and could take potions. Second round, to the plains and forests to get to Black Mage Village, where even the owls would not approach. More monster encounters, more sleeping under the stars.

   They say the trip doesn’t feel as long in good company—and it was at least partially true, even for this voyage. As much as his sibling had been unconscious in its duration, he’d felt much, much better with his presence than if he had been by himself. It constantly reminded him that he wasn’t alone, that he had to keep going, that not only the other’s life was in his hands, but there were others waiting for him, too. He’d talk to his limp form, whine, even confide in him, despite the fact that by all means it shouldn’t be reaching him.

   Looking at him now, on a proper bed, bare chest faintly rising and falling, made it all worth it. All the exhaustion, and getting hurt, and feeling too cold and too hot and hungry and his legs killing him—none of it mattered now that he knew he’d truly saved someone who deserved a second chance.

   “It could just as easily have been me.” Zidane whispered, sitting backwards on the chair with arms folded over its back.

   Vivi turned his fulvid gaze to him, yet the older’s eyes were still on the other Genome. “You mean…”

   The others had not been there, when Garland explained everything to him. Terra, Genomes, Kuja’s creation. _His_ creation. Aquamarine half-lidded, he breathed out. “Garland put us into the world to wage war. I was supposed to replace Kuja, when I came of age, but out of jealousy, he dropped me on Gaia instead. Saving me.” A headshake. “If he hadn’t done that, I could‘ve led the same life. Could be destroying the last of the cities here by now. So I… don’t blame him. He gave me the opportunity to live and be myself. It’s only fair I return the favour.”

   To the mage, the thought of Zidane being anyone else but himself was vaguely terrifying—maybe to everyone else, too. Especially the possibility that they’d have stood on opposite sides. Zidane, who went out of his way to help everyone—a warmonger? It was all too crazy. It made even more sense now, that he’d gone through that great slump back in Terra. Fortunately, they all had been there for him, bringing him back to his senses in no time flat.

   Kuja…didn’t have anyone to be there for him.

   Vivi bit his lip under the shroud of darkness which covered his face, then nodded. “We’ll help him this time. Right?”

   The blond turned his way with gratitude in his features. “Thank you, Vivi.”

 

   Awareness. The feeling of awareness was strange.

   Thoughts. He could think. Moreover, after a while, he could feel—solidness beneath him, lightness over him. Was anything supposed to feel solid, when you passed? Were you meant to be able to think? Garland had been able to speak after death, but he wasn’t Garland. His soul… had been deigned to expire, disappear. So why was it that he discerned sensations, why was it that he breathed?

   Rise, and fall. Rise, and fall. Slowly. Oh, it ached everywhere. A shuddering exhale; he felt wrapped fabric on him. Wounds, he assumed, and they’d been treated. By who? Was he really… alive?

   He searched his memories. Last, he’d been… in the outer cradle of Iifa. Deep below the ceiling of roots. Not a bad place, the Crystal World had thrown him onto. Quiet, peaceful, away from prying eyes… if he was meant to die, that locale would have been lovely. He’d used the last of his magic to make sure Zidane and his comrades would be whisked out of the raging tree’s reach, and to bid his brother farewell; after all, what kind of playwright would he be if he did not write out proper goodbyes at the end of the tale? Looking back, that might have been the only reason the other Genome had known he was still clinging to life, somewhere. The only reason he was able to come back to him—the fool. He’d been exhausted, drained, yet knew the other’s presence was not a dream. It was so physical, so… comforting. Comforting enough that his body relaxed further, sought the peace, and then he’d been out.

   Mayhap he was still in Iifa… but it did not _feel_ like Iifa. The Mist felt different. Under his back was… a bed? Not grass. Not moss. Too soft for the firmness of ground. Don’t tell him the fool had carried him up to the surface by himself—maybe the rat woman and red hair had come to help, and he just had not stayed awake long enough to see them.

   At this point, he could be anywhere in the world, and the thought did not sit well with him.

   Opening his eyes was a battle against the dimming light. Sore, aches—they felt much more stark once he’d shifted a centimetre, a small groan sounding from his throat. Attempting to blink away the haze for the better part of a minute, he could see the surroundings were not among the most luxurious. Wood, was that straw? His neck protested as he moved it, spotting another bed, several nightstands, a desk, and two commodes, mainly. Little to no décor. Door not in immediate sight.

   It not being a castle was already a positive tick, though he would not have minded his own, the Desert Palace. Smaller towns meant people likely didn’t know who he was, and if he was to live in a world he’d instigated war on, that was how he would rather do it; unseen, unknown. At least, it sounded like it was a quaint little settlement, if not a single building in the middle of nowhere; there was mostly silence outside.

   Well, find out he would not, if he stayed where he was. Did he want to move? If possible, answers would be most appreciated. It just—he needed someone else, to gauge reality. Where he stood, where the world stood. Everything felt real since he’d woken, but until he heard another confirm that it was real, it could as well not be. After all, by all means he should have been gone.

   More shifting, more pain. He felt weak. There were pillows in specific placements under his body, and he quickly noticed at least one of the reasons why; his tail was not squished by his weight. It would have felt like hellfire, if he had been lying down all this time (how long had it even been?) on the appendage, pressing against the base in a way it was not meant to handle. _This could only have been Zidane… others would not have known…_

   He felt some warmth, which he forced himself to try to control, lest it overwhelm him. Being saved when he did not deserve it; being treated from wounds he’d welcomed; the little details to assure his comfort. His heart wanted to burst, blue sapphire stung. He’d never been one to cry, yet his being desired so, for many reasons. For all that he’d destroyed, for the fact Garland—the true plight on his life—was no more, meaning it was finally over. If his soul was still set to expire? He would tread the bridge when he came to it. However, now, at this very moment, he felt alive. Very much alive.

   The tears flowed, he breathed unevenly, shaking, until it became dark and the fabric of the pillow his head rested on, only mildly damp. Staring at the ceiling. This time, he could hear more noises coming from outside. Pottery clacking, wood thumps. He wasn’t alone in the whole place.

   Rubbing at his eyes with the back of his fingers, he made to sit up more properly, and it was a painful, dizzying process. However, it was not the kind of pain from when wounds were fresh. The ones inflicted in the last two battles—fingertips reached for them. Side of right knee, mid back, left side, left shoulder. All bandaged, yet they felt… one week and a half, two weeks, perhaps, at minimum. They ached, yet did not sting as if they’d still been open. The ones which felt newer were smaller in general, bruises. Enough wrapping that they seemed to have preferred to leave him nude, with two sheets to conceal his form.

   Garments would have to be in order. Not his typical attire just yet, as he could not imagine wearing his shoulder guards with the burn on his shoulder still feeling tender, but anything that would not leave him so exposed. Now that he was sitting up… on the other bed he could make out a few simplistic clothes, which had vaguely looked like part of the sheets before. Did someone live here, or could this be an inn? Whatever the case, the twin mattress was being used. Not currently, yet in general.

   A pause. More sensations which felt like bones creaking as he turned on his seating, so that his feet found the floor. Holding a sheet over his waist. After not walking for, he assumed, two weeks at best, he wondered how his legs would take it. The knee injury could have hit something, too. Nevertheless, he was not afraid to try. Wrapping the fabric better around his middle, he braced his hands on the mattress, and tentatively attempted pushing to his feet, immediately falling back down with a wince. The knee had flared up, and he just did not have the energy to keep standing.

   A lavender tail thumped against the bed in mild annoyance. Previously hidden by his magic via invisibility glamour, before he entered Trance, it was now visible after he’d exhausted all Mist within him. He could hide it again, but… what would be the point anymore? At first, he’d wanted to distance himself from the Genomes—tools made by Garland, to house Terran souls when the time came. And Kuja was no tool—at least, that is what he wanted to believe, what he had sought for so long, to affirm himself. He’d changed his hair and fur colour, let the former grow, dressed differently. Not a Genome, not an empty vessel, and if his tail was nowhere to be seen, there would be no proof he was one. Now… Garland was dead, the surface of Terra was coal and ashes, and the Genomes were purportedly just another species on Gaia, as far as he’d observed Zidane’s group leaving with them in the Invincible. Just imagining his kin interacting with the cultures of Gaia… he was curious how that had worked out.

   The sound of a door opening had him faintly startle, and instinctively gather the sheets up to his chest. Minding nudity and vulnerability to an extent was also something he didn’t garner from his homeland—emotionless, the Genomes wore clothes out of the habits of the past inhabitants, and didn’t actually care if they were exposed. He, a tool of war, had to care where they would not. Hide wounds and bruises from Garland, hide weak points from the enemies. Concealing weakness, then, had been a major factor. The culture of Gaia merely made things more… complicated. Nudity was deemed embarrassing or shameful. Garments symbolized status. Noblesse and royalty wore rich fabric, woven dresses, flowing capes. Nudity was meant for “the bedroom”—Genomes were taught of copulating for the mere point of varied genetical material in sexual reproduction, and even then, it would only happen once they housed Terran souls. In Gaia, “sex” was one of the most conversed things that were ‘not talked about’. They would talk, but pretend they didn’t. They would get interested, but pretend they didn’t. Some put it on a pedestal, preached it to be only a ‘marriage thing’, and only for the purpose of producing offspring, not unlike his tribe learned. Others just saw it as it was. It was truly one of the most intriguing controversial topics in the world, and he honestly didn’t know why.

   A somewhat familiar head of blond walked into view, the faint lamplight from outside, behind him, making it clear it was him. The warlock watched with bated breath, blue sapphire minimally wide, as the other placed a pouch on the desk in front of the second bed; the _clink_ noise suggested it was filled with gil. A yellow tail sway, and the older wondered if his eyes were still adjusting to the darkness, or else he would have noticed him by now.

   That seemed to be the case, as when he turned from the desk, his line of sight caught different shading from the wall, and blinked several times towards the occupied bed, before his features widened slightly. “…Kuja?”

   At first, no response. The longer-haired waited, fingers subtly clenching on the sheets, and then the trouper was walking his way, approaching until he was nearly on the mattress himself, staring straight into pools of blue moonlight he’d hoped for so long would open. From this close, he could tell they had. Could tell he was _awake_.

   “How—how are you feeling?” He spoke softly, as if any louder tone could cause the other to fall into a coma again. “Any pains?”

   _Any pains?_ The bedridden one noted his saviour had bandages of his own. _From what occasions are those, I wonder._

   Looking away from the concerned aquamarines was hard, when they were so near. He swallowed. “…Sore. Tired.” As was his voice.

   The dagger-wielder’s expression softened. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

   Had it really been so easy for him, to change from likely wanting him to be severely punished in the beginning, to looking this content he’d survived now? Silence.

   And then, as if finally realizing their faces were less than a metre apart, Zidane drew back in surprise. “Um—oh yeah, you need to drink this.” He took a few steps backwards and ducked at the foot of—maybe his own bed? Was he sleeping there?, rummaging through a bag and retrieving a bottle. Clear liquid, slight bluish tint.

   In no time, he was back at the edge of the occupied bunk, motioning the glass towards the other. “It’s a potion. I guess you’re not used to it, since you have white magic and all, but, barely anyone knows white magic here, so if you don’t drink, you could be in trouble. Wizard in Conde Petie said your body needs help to fully recover, since you used a ton of magic back there, so…”

   The way he was eyeing the sundry, then shifting the gaze back to him, made the younger exhale. “Look, it’s completely fine. I wouldn’t have carried you all the way from Iifa just to poison you here or anythin’. I’ve drank lots of these before, and the taste of the commonly crafted ones isn’t ideal, but I don’t have any—why are ya looking at me like that?”

   The warlock’s eyes were wide now, spectating him as if horns had suddenly sprouted from the blond strands. It took him a few tries to speak, disbelief lacing his every word, “Carried me… ‘all the way’…?”

   …Maybe he shouldn’t have said that? The trouper bit the inside of his lip, growing nervous at his comrade’s clear shock. “Uh, yeah? I mean, it wasn’t that bad, and it’s all over now, we’re fine.” His free hand moved to cradle the back of his head like an anxious tic. “You’re tall, but not a heavy weight like the boss—if it had been the boss instead, that would’ve been something—and, we stopped at Conde Petie, too, which was necessary, because m…aybe you wouldn’t have woken up at all without that healing.” And there goes the chatterbox, as if he’d been caught red-handed, when as far as he knew, he hadn’t done anything particularly _wrong_ , except perhaps telling his friends to go without him instead of help out.

   Kuja didn’t want to believe it, but the more the other spoke, the more glaring it became that he had indeed, without exaggeration, physically _carried him from the Iifa Tree_. And where were they? If they had _stopped_ at Conde Petie, and not ‘here’, then they were beyond the dwarf town. It was just—he didn’t. He couldn’t. This—this _fool_ , having _him_ on his back, the man who had a hand in the partial destruction of the city he grew up in, the kingdoms of his friends, led him on a chase across the entire planet and even on Terra, and knocked him and his group to the ground _twice_ , supporting him across a wide breadth of land with the sun and the monsters and the rain and—this couldn’t be happening.

   “If you’re gonna stay there with your mouth open like that, then I’ll do it myself. Here comes the airship.” Zidane uncorked the bottle and approached it to his brother’s lips, making to hold his jaw so he could tip it, but the older was suddenly fumbling and pushing the glass away.

   “Do not—… allow me.” The bedridden sagged visibly and exhaled a deep, tired breath, slim fingers wrapping around the sundry and taking the rim to his mouth. Never mind that he disliked eating or drinking in front of others, never mind that he didn’t know if his currently frail body would take it well—he was downing the liquid despite it all simply to distract himself from the truth he’d just been faced with. He’d thought he’d been with his comrades, used an airship, chocobos, anything—it was much easier to swallow the estranged concoction than the fact there was someone who cared about him enough to have done this much, selflessly.

   The potion done, he was grimacing at the taste, and it didn’t take long for him to start feeling nauseous. Empty stomach, a volley of emotions, and inhaling something his brain helpfully applied was ‘not water’. He shifted to lie back down, hoping it would help, sheets still providing cover.

   What the blond said next implied he could tell his sibling felt ill, probably by the way he was breathing; raggedly, trying to control his stomach. “Um, if you think you’re gonna get sick, there’s a chamberpot under the bed.” His features were a mixture of concern and frustration; damn, he wished he could do something. “I have to leave for a little bit, because I’m hungry and didn’t—oh, sorry, shouldn’t talk about eating.” He internally cursed, shaking his head. “I’ll be back soon. Yell if y’need any help.”

   With that, he scurried off, leaving the older to hope exhaustion won over sickness. A weak, leveled sigh through his nose.

   _Zidane_ …


	2. 一緒に食べないか

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I merely… am accustomed to feeding alone.”

   His body still seemed to be somewhat lethargic, as the next time he woke, it was dark again. He assumed it was not the same evening, for all evidence pointed to his brother sleeping in the other bed, and he was not there, currently.

   In a good vein, at least he did not feel as ill anymore. The curative was taking effect, as he could move without every single limb aching now. Maybe he could even walk, if he tried. An attempt was made; the pain on his knee rang up to his ears, but he managed to stand for a few moments before buckling and bracing himself on the opposite bedframe. A hiss, and he transferred most of his weight to his left leg, bringing the sheet up to—

   A hand rested on the hair at his back, and he looked up sharply. So distracted by his move into mobile independence, he hadn’t heard his kin come in.

   “Hey.” Was the casual greeting, as if he had never taken a Tranced Ultima to the face from him—twice. “I brought soup.”

   There was a lot of staring, where Kuja was reminded of everything that had been said the previous night. A minute of sinking in, that this was really happening. He was _still_ alive, recovering, and being taken care of.

   Zidane likely didn’t think too much on it—or he already had had a long waiting time to think about everything—, because he responded to the silence with helping the other back on his bed. “I’d still wait a few days to walk if I were ya. Your knee looked awful. …Sorry.” He looked down, then moved over to the desk, where a bowl with a slightly fragrant smell sat. “None of us wanted to… kill you, y’know. Jus’ stop you. But it’s hard to hold back, especially when you’re so strong.” Carrying the food over, he still did not look back to him, at first. “Ripped your robe to wrap you up and stop the bloodloss back at Iifa, too, so sorry for the kinda ruined clothes as well.” Notably, the blond was also wearing simpler, commoner-like clothes, that he supposed were similar to the ones they’d eventually give him. “Amarant did a number on your back, though none hit anything important, ‘cept maybe the knee…”

   “It was the Burmecian.”

   A wince. “Y…eah, Freya’s good. She’s kicked my ass before.” It was a little uncomfortable, to tip-toe around remarks such as _glad none of them had the intent to kill_. If any of their blades had penetrated instead of slashed, it was frighteningly possible he’d have passed before reaching Conde Petie. “Anyway—I also had gotten soup yesterday, but you were sleeping when I came back, so I returned it so it wouldn’t go bad. This one’s newish, potato and roots, and I took out the solids in case you can’t stomach ‘em yet.” He offered the bowl for him to take.

   If the other thought the warlock was mad that his comrades had hurt him; he wasn’t. How could he blame them, when he had all but asked for it, threatening not only their lives, yet existence itself. Escaping most certain death with non-crippling wounds was a huger blessing than a sentenced man could ever imagine. They didn’t _hurt_ him—they _saved_ him.

   The older eyed the contents of the pot, then took it in his own hands. “I cannot guarantee my organism will accept it.”

   “If you don’t think you can do it, just leave it on the nightstand, but at least try, ‘kay?” He moved once more to fetch another potion from that bag. “You can even alternate between these so the soup masks the taste. Professional adventurer tip from myself.”

   Once the flask was placed atop the sheets, Kuja felt torn. Should he ask him to leave? For one, eating around others felt uncomfortable to him; however, he’d drank that sundry in front of the trouper during an emotional surge, the previous day. Zidane, the indelicate who had been surprisingly delicate lately, didn’t care.

   “What’s wrong?” Said boy blinked, tail flicking. “Is it too cold, or too warm? I tried goin’ for lukewarm because I didn’t know how you’d like it—”

   “It is fine.” The lavender assured, exhaling softly. “I merely… am accustomed to feeding alone.”

   A pause. Then, a wide grin splayed over the younger’s lips. “That it? Well, you won’t need to eat alone anymore! I already ate, so ideally I shouldn’t get more food, but… I’ll get some water so ya aren’t the only one drinking!” And when the bedridden opened his mouth, it was too late; the eager one was already out the door.

   A weary sigh sounded. Was he truly going to be like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as if he had never taken a Tranced Ultima to the face from him—twice.
> 
> Chapter 2 and 3 are shorter because I wanted to separate what's going to happen in chapter 4 for reader discretion.


	3. 長い道のり

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still had a long path ahead of him.

   The previous night, Kuja found out just where they were; the Black Mage Village. A locale he had gone to but once, when recruiting Black Mages to serve him. A tiny settlement, he remembered. Artificial beings trying to build their lives from the ground up. Back then, he’d both found the feat formidable, and scoffed at it; one side found it silly that dolls who did not live long enough were trying so hard to make a fair living together, while the other knew deep down that they weren’t so different from Genomes, after all. He’d tried to push the notion away every time. Because, in the end, it was not hard to see; if Black Mages were like Genomes, and the creator of the Genomes was Garland, then the creator of Black Mages was much like him. After being informed of his scheduled mortality, it was one of the thoughts that had driven him to madness. He’d done nigh everything for the man he despised most, using whatever means to make him proud. Then, using those same means to find power that would be capable of destroying him. By the time the old puppeteer was gone, there had been no time to ponder on what would be next, what he could do with his freedom, for that, too, was taken away as soon as he’d heard of the expiration. The people, nations, creations he’d wronged—he would have no time to right them. His life would be forfeit—just like the Black Mages’.

   If there was suffering he could not resolve, if there was a broken world he’d severed by necessity, that he no longer had time to fix, then he’d take drastic measures, in his agony; end all life. There would be no mistreated creations, if there were no creations. There would be no damaged world, if there was no world. If he couldn’t end the sorrow he’d caused, as all paths had been destroyed around him—he’d end it all.

   He knew he was mad. The conscious part of him, his innate self, his true self, had wanted nothing more than Zidane’s comrades to come and stop him, kill him, while his volatile, mistreated self burned all energy into the battle.

   As he faded from the Crystal World and on Iifa, the agony was gone, the energy was gone. Garland’s puppet was gone. What remained was just Kuja, who was able to only save a party of eight, and no more. For a villain who did not have the luxury of time to redeem himself, death was all he deserved.

   And now, in the settlement of his wronged creations, he was faced with time. Not a definite amount, not an indefinite amount. He could die tomorrow. It could be a year. It could be twenty. Eighty. For a man who had never truly lived a life of his own, how much time did he need?

   _“Oh, the Genomes are here too,”_ Zidane had said. _“That’s where we brought them.”_

   Fate had presented him with a challenge; _your life goes on. Now, what will you do?_

   “Kuja?”

   A soft voice. Too small, too meek to be a greeting of his brother’s. He looked up from the sheets, being met with glowing yellow ovals and a stitched hat at the foot of the bed.

   When the Genome looked directly at him, the short one ducked a little, then found the courage to speak up. “Um… Zidane is escorting travelers in the forest, so he asked me to get you a potion.” He waddled out of view, returned with a flask, then slowly made his way to the side of the occupied bed. The blue sapphire of those eyes had not left him, and it made him kind of nervous, even though his friend had told him the warlock was behaving. “So… here.”

   The bottle was placed on the nightstand. “I hope you’ll get well soon, Mister Kuja.” His job done, he started skittering back to the hallway.

   “Vivi.”

   The Black Mage froze. He… he knew his name? Flustered, he adjusted the edges of his hat as he gyrated to face the other, trying his best to not appear intimidated.

   The bedridden’s features were unreadable, or at least to him. Shortly, lavender strands would tickle fair contours as he slightly bowed his head. “Thank you.”

   Taken aback, the small mage nearly jumped. “U-um! Y-you’re welcome!” And then he took his leave in the quickest fashion he could muster, tripping out of sight.

   …Soft exhale. If this once-villain had to earn anyone’s trust but his kin’s, he still had a long path ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivi is precious. Shoutouts to my Vivi RP partner who was the only one who -really- roleplayed with my Kuja yet <3


	4. 魔法の水

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...It was too small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be pee.

   A few hours had gone by after Vivi’s visit, and Kuja found that, at this point, waking up earlier was pointless when he did not have much to do. His pastime in the Desert Palace included reading, reading, and more reading—and there were no books in this hut, as far as he could see. He would be surprised if there were any in the entire village.

   Practicing spellcasting this soon did not sound ideal, either. Not all his strength had returned, and the Mist within him was still recovering. It was not impossible to use magic, yet doing so would feel more draining than it was worth at the moment. In resume, most everything was tiring when one was in this state.

   Suffice to say, he was also weary of thinking. Too much thinking, about all years of his life, all he’d done, and here and now, how to move forward. It was exhausting, all the guilt and regret and countless _what if_ s. Anxiety. Once he recovered, what would he do? Where would he go? Not somewhere where people knew his name. The others would not forgive him so easily. Zidane was a reckless, hopeless romantic, gladly endangering himself if it meant helping others. Vivi was a child. Their comrades? He’d instigated a queen to proclaim war and invade, and once she conspired against him, had her killed. Garnet’s own mother. Two of the targeted nations were Burmecia and Cleyra, the only homes of Freya’s kind, where many were slain. Burmecia stood in ruins. Cleyra was leveled.

   He shoved his eyes on the pillow. So many thoughts, so many sins—he wanted it all to stop. If he was to stay here like this, with nothing to busy himself with, his will would grow weak and clammy. Doubt would devour him, hesitation would freeze him, self-loathing could ensure he never recovered at all.

   His bladder gave a twinge, and he groaned in the depths of his throat. The weeks of coma, potions, and the soup seemed to finally be getting through to him, he noted a little dryly. Breathing in deeply, he tried to empty his mind, think of nothing, a void. Focus on his breathing, the subtle pressure in and out of his lungs, cooling his throat. In… out. In… out.

 

   He didn’t know what exactly awoke him, and was only half surprised he’d fallen asleep. His body was demanding a lot of rest, so it was only natural, but he still hadn’t fully expected it. A little groggily, he lifted his gaze towards the window on the far wall, gathering that it must be sunset. A few hours, presumably, with the way he felt about this nap; unlikely that it had been another entire day. Was there a reason for it, or had he merely—

   One of the likely reasons made itself known as a lingering throb from his bladder, which caused him to curl up slightly on himself.

   Peachy, so it had gotten this bad already.

   As long as it had taken for this necessity to turn up, he had known it was eventually going to. It wouldn’t wait for him to heal. And if the fullness he felt was any indication, it would probably not wait for many other things, either.

   A hiss-like, slow exhale as his thighs quivered. There was no point in postponing it. No one was around; best to just do it and get it done with.

   Mindful of his knee, he sat up gradually, lower half tensed all the while. Now, to reach down the side of the bunk and pat around for the chamberpot…

   The first evening, Zidane had mentioned the chamberpot was under the bed. Fortunately (thank goodness), he hadn’t needed it until now, so he had not even seen the object yet. Perhaps he should have done it earlier, however, when the blond was still nearby, because now that he found it…

   …It was too small.

   Kuja fancied having a fine grasp on some of his limits, on most of how his systems worked. Or at least, he used to—though it couldn’t have changed so dramatically after reawakening. Part of that knowledge was an idea of the quantity in his bladder when it was full—and he knew from a glance that the size of this container was not enough.

   Nervousness crept up into him, and he swallowed heavily. It would be crass for him to go through with it, only for the vessel to overflow. Standing up to grab something else? He could have done it, if he wasn’t in this predicament; as it was, if his knee flared up now, there was a very real possibility of him losing control.

   Trembling. _Yell if you need help?_  What would be more embarrassing—calling out for something as silly as this, or wetting the floor? Never had he been in a situation like this before, where he was so helpless before a need so simple. He was usually able to plan ahead, he was usually able to _walk—_

   Another reverberating pang. For sake, he was bloated. It had taken years for him to train his bladder to make as few trips to the washroom as possible. The tissue became larger, could store more, for longer. There were days he could go without a single trip. He wasn’t invincible, however. Even if it took longer for him to reach urgency, it happened. Not that he liked reaching that threshold—yet here it was. Distended, stretched, the organ begged for relief. And he… he couldn’t believe this was happening.

   Clasping teeth, he dug his nails into the sheets, seeking external pressure that would distract him from the one at the cradle of his abdomen. Had his brother already arrived? Where was he? For the second time in his life, he was waiting for him, pleading him to appear. Perhaps the delay would not have been so torturous if he had been wearing something on his lower half; on top, he’d been given a lightweight poncho, while he was told they’d get him a skirt once he was able to walk properly. It was sensible, especially regarding his wounds and the small size of the village, but all the instinctual part of his brain could think of was that there were no barriers between his penis and the ambient, so _why_ was he holding himself back?

   Time dragged. It could have been a minute, could have been ten. So ironic, that hours earlier, he’d beseeched his thoughts to stop, and now, he wanted them back—anything to take his mind off the throbbing balloon, threatening to give. Where before his imagination could wander, currently all of his focus went into simply holding it.

   At some point, clenching muscles alone became not enough. The liquid _pushed_ against his sphincter, and he was forced to physically grab himself at the base under the sheets, emitting a suffering whimper. Even with nobody to see, this was just so—humiliating. The most powerful magician bar none, after Garland’s death—reduced to helpless weakness under a mundane biological necessity. The sensation of desperation was enough to nearly bring tears to his squeezed eyes. It _hurt_.

   “Hey, I’m back! Did Vivi give you the—”

   It could be pinpointed exactly when Zidane had entered and noticed he was awake, and when he actually caught a good look at his sibling. The silence was brief, because soon he was rushing towards him. “W-what’s the matter?”

   The older exhaled sharply, craning his head and opening his eyes halfway to look at him. “Zidane.” He breathed out warmly, sounding strained, and woah, having his name whispered like that either seduced him or terrified him. “The chamberpot is… too small.”

   The blond looked almost comically startled. “The chamberpot…” One, two, three seconds, and the tan face lighted in realization. “H-hold on! I’m gonna get something—please let go if it hurts too much, okay?”

   There was an exasperated groan at the words ‘let go’; it was exactly what he _didn’t_ need to hear, but his fellow Genome was already missing. Bruised genitals were not among the damage he’d expected to ever receive, yet judging by how tightly he was squeezing himself, the notion wasn’t farfetched anymore.

   No, he was… bursting. He couldn’t hold on. It burned.

   Blood rushed through his ears as he turned to the side, his knee sending fire shooting up his leg and spine, and he became numb. Uncovered himself. His sphincter opened, his grip laxed.

   And louder than the heat swimming in his head was the sound of liquid splashing onto the bottom of a bucket.

   The trouper was panting as he’d arrived just in time, hands trembling a little at the adrenaline rush. It hadn’t been too long since he’d arrived from his escorting task, and then _this_ was what had made his heart beat the fastest. Not the usual monsters in the forest, not the cute presence of a female traveler. No; it had been the look of sheer desperation on his brother’s face, the jump to help him as soon as possible.

   It started as a weak, painful stream before escalating into a veritable torrent, startling the ponytailed into keeping hold of the object instead of moving away. Now that the surge of urgency was subsiding, he had time to take in the situation—and immediately flushed. His partner was fully exposed to him (there was a _big_ difference when he was unconscious and when he was awake), features drawn in unadulterated relief, and pouring something so intimate right in front of him, into the vessel he was holding. Look—peeing together with Blank was fine, peeing together with Vivi was fine. Sweet paradise forgive him, but that was a way to show how comfortable he was around them. _Kuja_ , however—Kuja was different. He knew he was male, he’d even found out he was his _brother_ , yet he had never given him the same vibe his Tantalus boys did. He’d always been too proper, gorgeous, fearsome—ever since looking down on their beaten forms in Burmecia. Too cunning, powerful—untouchable. Unknowingly, he’d put him on a pedestal, and once on a pedestal, it was hard to bring them to the same level as your eyes. Despite seeing him at his worst, in a coma, at death’s doorstep, it was still complicated to swallow how much like them he truly was.

   Seeing him let go like this was incredible.

   The warlock exhaled shuddering breaths, shaking with the overwhelming feeling of relief. Once he’d heard the gradual filling of a container, he knew it was alright for him to keep going. Not that he would have been able to stop; the engorged organ had no plans of relinquishing control anytime soon. The pain slowly ebbed away; even the sting in his knee felt faint before the tidal wave of pleasure. Emptying his bladder might have never felt so good.

   A little under halfway full on the bucket, the stream returned to a more average flow, a soft noise voicing from the lavender’s lips that sounded a lot like a moan. To hear these faltering notes of vulnerability from someone so reserved was unexpected, especially so soon; _of course_ the brigand had dipped into ‘salacious’ thoughts before, as it was anticipated of a flirt when said flirt found someone attractive. During the haul, when he’d lie on him to shield his body as he slept, he’d quip, amused, on how romantic the atmosphere was; lying on top of each other, messy clothes, with only the twin moons as witness. He’d never touched him, though. Pushy as he was, lack of consent irked him. The other was out cold, dying, and he’d be exhausted by sleep time. He’d wondered if his kin was even propitious to being courted. Goodness—he wanted Blank, he wanted Freya, he wanted Garnet, he wanted Amarant, and he’d gladly take Kuja, too. Ironic that the last one who’d come into his life was the one he could currently hear muffling the sweetest little mewls.

   Once the flow had normalized, the blond had expected it to stop soon. It didn’t. And then he started worrying that even a cask this size was not going to be enough. He had to give his folk some credit; slim as he looked, and even thinner after weeks of not eating, his bladder was _large_. He felt a pang of pity that he’d had to hold in all of this. It didn’t matter anymore; now he could let it all out.

   In a blissful haze as he was, the older was not unaware of his brother’s gaze. A mite puzzling; why had he not left, or at the very least turned away from him? Did he think he would not be able to aim? It was beyond embarrassing, yet…there was something else he felt, and he sincerely could not place it. Having someone he trusted to an extent be so close, despite…

   The pouring piddled into broken streams, the magician bringing the back of his free fingers over his lips, a quake reverberating in his form as he tried to squeeze the last out of him. Breathing lightly labored. Dark eyelashes fanning over bashful cerulean hues. Milky abdomen and thighs quivering. Tail twitching in rigid coils.

   Damn, Zidane hadn’t acquired the tickets for a show, but he certainly got one.

   He wet his lips, intent on breaking the silence, now that his partner was almost done. “You… really had to go, huh? You sure know how to hold it. I’m impressed.”

   The glare sent his way was mitigated by the spectacular blush on those pale cheeks. Drip, drip. Aquamarine suddenly zoned in on the dribbling tip, and he had to fight the urge to press his tongue against it as hard as he’d fought Deathgaze. Weakened or not, he didn’t doubt the other was fully capable of blasting a Firaga on his face. And he didn’t particularly want to be blasted by a Firaga on the face.

   The spell was broken as elegant fingers slid further down the length in a squeezing motion, coaxing out drops, and in a blur he’d tipped back and covered himself again, shifting so that his back was to the blond, despite the burning sting in his knee. His body still trembled, overstimulated, and his breathing pattern was still uneven, but he tried to ignore the needy, persistent throbs in his empty bladder which desired to release more, despite having little to nothing left to give. He could have stayed a tad longer to make sure everything got out, yet the other Genome openly staring at him like that was—goodness.

   Licking his lips again, the younger was a mild mess. He was aroused, dazed, alert, slightly bewildered, slightly concerned, all at once. They’d successfully avoided an accident, though… he might have overstepped his boundaries. Seen too much, said too much. Which added a tinge of anxiety to the mix. They had been something very _Zidane_ to say—but Kuja wasn’t used to him. As far as he knew, the older could have relieved himself in privacy and peace all his life—while _he_ didn’t expressly care too much about keeping his trousers unbuckled around close friends. The comments came just as naturally. He and Blank would have almost teasing _wars_ , remarking on so many things that made the rest of Tantalus either sigh in aggravation or blush up to their ears.

   Apparently he’d felt comfortable enough to look, mesmerized. Comfortable enough that his mouth spoke before his mind caught it. And he was paying the price, because his brother might be mad at him. His blood flowed warm, his genitals felt plumper, and even if he’d enjoyed it to this extent, he had to calm down, step back, and probably apologize.

   He made a small face when he finally stood up, stretching his legs from his crouched position. Looking down at the bucket, he breathed out gingerly; almost full. It made him feel… kind of bad, that he was out the entire day, when the other was still mostly bedridden. It sort of felt like he’d just abandoned him. And all those potions… maybe he should have guessed that the average chamberpot was not enough, since it stayed empty the first two days…

   “Um…” He tried to start; apologies had never been his forte. After all, he was a man of his promises. “I’m… sorry that I wasn’t here earlier. I should’ve told Vivi to check up more often. Thought you’d be asleep most of the time, so…”

   …Was the brigand really apologizing for not having him under watch like an irresponsible child? Was he really?

   “…’til you can walk properly, I should only stay in the village. And… A-and… sorry for staring at you like that. I just—never minded it, see? I grew up used to it, and I care about you, so those things just kinda got together and I didn’t realize what I was doing.” A bashful tail flick. “You can stay mad at me if you want, I don’t blame ya, just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t a bother. You don’t disgust me, and I’m happy to help.” Quite the contrary, on the disgust; his sibling smelled dangerously good. Quality ink on silky parchment, the comforting breeze of a healing spell, lavender fields, a familiar stone. The scent of his release was the same, and even from standing up distance to the ground, even if he wasn’t as attuned to the Mist and the senses it brought as a few others, he could feel the information on the grand potency of his magic from it. It was nearly intoxicating.

   …Well, at least the warlock now knew he hadn’t been a blight. Not that anyone would think it, from the way the blond had looked; the glinting, blue fire in those eyes had been intense enough even their memory could make him shiver. It was all so foreign to him. Was this how other Gaians acted? No, it could only be Zidane. He’d observed the folks for years, and none of them did the same stunts as this man. No one had such a bright, goofy smile on his face while facing the one who should have been his mortal enemy.

   A near-inaudible sigh, and he was turning from his side to look at the other, who had bent down to pick the container. “I am not… mad, at you. Nevertheless, I must still point out that there is no need to treat me like an ineligible. Being under watch is neither required nor welcomed.”

   Blinking, as the dagger wielder held the handle. “I, uh, didn’t mean to offend—I just—well, I know you can take care of yourself. You’re right. No need for me to be so strict.” A sheepish smile, and it would have been accompanied with a headscratch if he didn’t need both hands to carry the cask. Him, admitting to having said something wrong in no time flat? Apparently looking out for someone who was in a semi-fragile state did this to him. Change of subject? “You know… the Black Mages were waiting for this.”

   A pause. “…Waiting for what?”

   Not something to casually say out loud, if the avoidance darting of aquamarine was any indication. “They told me that magically rich… uh… fluids, helped the crops grow more. So they asked me to… bring it over whenever you…” He trailed off.

   …There was nothing the older could do but stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's any kinks you want written, tell me so I can think about it!

**Author's Note:**

> Prepare for many "(breath)" chapter endings.


End file.
